Dreamin' in Dallas

the spanksters are headed to dreamin' in dallas (DID) tomorrow!! i can't wait to chat with the girls, hear the speakers on board, and get some free books!!! forgot to mention the food - i'm sure it will be good.

memories from a past DID ... one of my favorite authors borrowing my pen, then keeping it. i think chellie and i still laugh about that today. it was so worth it and just a pen - of COURSE the author could keep it.

see everyone tomorrow!

where's my ship?

yesterday i had a million topics i wanted to write about, or rather rant about, but today i feel a bit like a space cadet coasting through the morning sans much sleep. yesterday i could've written a dissertation on my intense dislike of the USPS and how i believe they are illiterate pirates. i could've written about how senior citizens seem to revert to infantile tendencies. i could've written about how frustrating it is to pick up a hard cover book by a past favorite author only to realize within the first 10 pages that he has broken several "no-no's" i have been taught at writer conferences on craft. but, yesterday is yesterday and today i am in la-la land as a little man is lying on the floor of my office waving his arms and legs. since i am not babylingual, i do not know what he is saying ... but i can likely figure most things out. anyway, i have one story i am in the middle of writing, another one i am trying to edit for the gabillionth time, only i'm finding myself - loving the f word today - frustrated in the path to publication. not a bad frustration - just a frustrated frustration that you get close to having your finger on the nail only to have it slide off as if someone has laced it with butter. one day you think you just need to find an editor, the next day you think you need to find an agent ... depending on the market, you may have to go to a conference just to communicate with either or - and the closest conference may be states away. and i go back to the crappy book i just started reading that makes me scratch my head - how did it get published? the first six pages were on the setting of the story - a U.S. city. sorry, i got bored after one page, and since i've been to this city, i really didn't need all the background info. it's just frustrating to keep up with the changing market, to do all the research, then add on top of that the craft itself of writing and editing ....

but

it's what i love. guess i'm allowed a lazy day, especially after a night sans sleep, but i know i'll have to buckle down tomorrow, or the next day, and do some work. one thing i have learned is that this road is a slow-traveling one and writers must have patience. i keep telling myself that there must be the mother ship of all deals out there for me because i have been patient a long time.

here's till my ship comes in ...

article on e-books

just a quick post to include the link to an article i read in the new york times in regard to e-books:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/15/technology/companies/15amazon.html?pagewanted=1&hpw

up in my grill

i have discovered, not recently, that personal space is a phenomenon, when it comes to me. where to start. first of all, let me preface this blog with the fact that i am only child. i am also a writer, which means i tend to have introverted tendencies. so, i am quite comfortable being alone. in fact, i revere it daily.

so, let me tell you while i am beguiled and perplexed about my personal space, or lack thereof.

scenario #1
when i go to the gym, i make it a point to find a machine where no one else is next to. why? i will tell you why. most chicks and dudes that go to my gym are not there to work out. how do i know this? well, when a chick comes in wearing freshly applied makeup with her flat-ironed hair down, you figure it out. but, this does not bother me, much. what does bother me is that they talk on their cell phones while walking on the stairmaster! and i don't mean like taking a quick emergency call - i mean they have 30-minute conversations at full-voice volume! seriously. but here is the phenomenon - there could be 50 open treadmills - i am not exaggerating on that number - and excessive chatty cell-phone chick comes and gets right next to me. why? there are like 49 open treadmills! a lot of times i take a book with me to read and i also wear my ipod, so i'm trying real hard to block out all the huffing noises people make when they run or whatever, then here comes charlotte-chats-a-lot and i'm wondering why - why does she feel the need to be all up in my grill when i'm clearly trying to multitask by reading and exercising? at that moment my grill should be seen as a public library. shhh!

scenario #2
public bathrooms. picture six stalls. let's say i walk in and the entire bathroom is empty. which stall do i go into? i go into stall number three - smack dab in the middle. that makes me think my odds of the next person who comes in and spreading out is pretty good. WRONG! it always happens. someone comes and gets right beside me and it never fails - they are not there for a short pit stop. so i have to rush to get out of there or else i gag.

scenario #3
there is this lady. i'm not saying who she is or where i know her from or when this happens, but oh my gahhhhhhhhhhhh! she is all up in my grill and then some. i get that she just doesn't get that it's way over the border too close to my face. in fact, sometimes i wonder if she is in need of a hug because why else would someone get so close to me? i know what you're thinking, but no, she is married. to a man. it just makes me very uncomfortable because the chances of getting spit upon are tremendously increased as well as the likelihood of me smelling metallica breath.

i'm not sure what this invasion of personal space is all about. it's not my imagination. it happens every day. maybe i have some rockin' pheromones? maybe people see me as a challenge - "ooh, that girl's reading a book, i bet she'd find my conversation much more interesting." or maybe ...

people
people who need people
are the most annoying people in the world

just kidding! i love people. not the barbra streisand song, but i love barbra streisand and i love people, as in a large quantity of individuals. while i love people, i just don't want to listen to wah wah wah, hear their grodie bathroom, no-shame noises, or be able to smell their breath up close and personal.

so, if you have any clue why my grill seems to attract bugs - get it, bugs - lemme know. just don't get too close to my face when you tell me.

disclaimer: no member of the spanksters has ever gotten too close to my grill, so no worries. you guys are totally in compliance with personal space and i commend you for your cognizance of others existing in this universe.

Killer Kites

Yesterday we out in the backyard to fly a kite. The backyard’s pretty big and it seemed like a good idea. There wasn’t enough wind and it would only stay up for a few minutes at a time. But the kiddo has a determined streak and wanted to keep trying. It was fun until we got it stuck in the top of the neighbor’s tree. Oops. Maybe they won’t notice.

So, today we bought 2 new kites. After learning a valuable lesson yesterday, we took the new kites to the soccer field to fly them. Today was really windy and a great day for flying kites.

The hubby told us about when he was a kid they would have kite ‘fights.’ I thought that meant they would try to whack each other with the kites but apparently that wasn’t the case. They would duct tape razor blades to the edges and then fight them in the air. He also admitted to duct taping nails and anything else they could find and then fighting the kites.

Of course, their parents knew nothing about it. That made me wonder how often they needed new kites, and that was pretty much every day. He said they would search the ditches for Coke bottles and sell those to make some money. Then they would purchase a new kite for forty-nine cents and off to the kite fights they’d go.

Being a mom, my first thought was that razor blades and nails on kites seemed like the perfect way to loose an eye or get someone’s throat cut.

I can see the headlines now, “Be on the lookout for a Killer Kite. It’s Pink and white with Hello Kitty on the face but don’t be fooled by its cotton candy coloring, this kite is deadly. Last seen heading north on a warm front of high pressure air.”

Life Sucks...And Then You Write...

This is going to be two posts in one. A buy one get one free, except we don't charge for these magnificent words of wisdom...but that is an idea...

The great thing about being a writer is: it's an excellent source for venting. The quote on my blog site is, "by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." Sylvia Plath wrote that. I have no idea who she is, and I should probably google her, but isn't she right?

If you have that wonderful over active imagination, any single moment in your life - good or bad - can become the next best thing on the book shelf. But you also have to have the guts to do it and just get over yourself.

Isn't that easier said than done?

I'm a big chicken. I love to write. I write all the time but up until I joined this fabulous group we now call THE SPANKSTERS, I never, ever let anyone read a single word I wrote. Well, that's if you don't count the sickening poetry my BFF and I wrote in high school. I can show you that anytime, if you need a good laugh. I didn't want anyone to read all the other stuff because, what if they didn't like it? What if they laughed at these things that had become so personal to me? What if they didn't - eek - get it? Get me?

But here's the thing, someone has to read it sometime. Someone has to give you their opinion so you know if your getting it right. That's where the guts part comes into play. I lived in my own little writing world until one day I realized, I only had me and my overactive imagination to tell me it was good, or that it sucked ass and I shouldn't quit my day job. That's when I found DARA and went to my first conference. Then a short while later, Angela (at least I'm pretty sure it was her) sent out the one email on the loop that I read about forming a critique group. And now I have this wonderful group of women that I can't imagine not having in my writing world. Everyone one of us is unique with our writing styles and I have learned so much - from the correct use of ... to all the different ways to use/say the word 'cock'. Okay, that's just the funny stuff, but in the two years or so we have been together, I see a difference in my writing. I've gotten over my chicken lily livered ways and look forward to every reply email that has suggestions or rewrites or grammar errors that probably has Christie grinding her pearly whites...but it's all so very appreciated.

2009 in a new year. A new beginning for all of us. A time to layout some serious goals and whack that freaking crap-o-la out of them. WE GOT THIS!!! Karilyn's recent wonderful oh-my-god she's getting published news, is such an inspiration. It made it so real to me, so within our reach. WE GOT THIS!!!

Okay, part deux. I recently became addicted to facebook. This is a result of a friend calling me and laughing hysterically. I won't go into details, because I don't like to hurt peoples feelings, but I got logged in and youtube was replaced by looking at high school chums and what they are doing now. That's not really my point, but it leads up to it.

I'm a journaler (is that a word?). I've kept a journal since I was probably about twelve. So, with this influx of high school memories, I pulled those old volumes out and began to weep from laughing so hard. Being a teenager really sucked if what I wrote is any indication. Seriously, I don't recall being so melodramatic but there it is...all written out for me to see. I even found tucked in between the pages the phone number of the first boy I loved. In his first grade hand writing...even though he was seventeen when he wrote it. (take that jackass!) Sorry that just felt good.

I started reading in the journal that captured my 16th, 17th and 18th years. Oh, Lord what good times that was. If I could get a publisher to read this, I know they'd buy it and publish it as, "Yeah, I was 16 once too." It could be a guide to teenagers when they hear that line from their mother. I know I heard it. Some of my favorite dramatic moments are outlined below.

- my mother did say to me, "You don't know what love is." This was after she told me that I was no longer allowed see the juvenile delinquent I L-O-V-E-D 4-EVER. Turns out...she might have been right. But don't tell her I said that.

- "Why can't I just get over him?" This said about above mentioned idiot, the same entry goes on to say I've been seeing someone else. Hmmmm.

- "Like the song says, there's a danger in loving somebody too much." Yes, yes. I did say that.

- "I'm so alone." This entry then goes on to talk about how I'd done this with that person and that with this other person and how I had plans to hang out with someone else. Yeah, I was sooooo alone.

- "Whatever, he's young anyway." This said about a boy that was maybe, 6 months younger than me and about a foot and 100 lbs heavier than me. Nevermind this comment came from him pissing me off. So there! I was very mature for my age...

Oh, I could go on for days. It's comedy gold those old volumes of my life.

Which brings me back to the title, life does suck sometimes but you write it down, you get it out then you look back at it 15 years later and laugh. Because everything is life is writable. EVERYTHING.

Even mean boys that tear your heart out and stomp on it in front of his friends...hey, I'm not bitter. Mostly because I'm bigger than that but maybe a little because I know how his life turned out...hehehe.

I may pass out, but I'll get to the top!

A couple of years ago we went to Savannah, GA on vacation and we drove out to one of the islands to tour a light house. Do you have ANY idea how many steps there are to the top of a lighthouse? There’s at least a million. I couldn’t count past that because I think I passed out for a while.

The stairwell is designed with leprechauns or Gwyneth Paltrow in mind because for the average adult it’s like trying to squeeze into a tube of toothpaste. There was a long line of people going to the lookout at the top. I was the leader of my family and an older gentleman was in front of me. About a fourth of the way up I thought this isn’t too bad. We can do this. A little further up and I’m getting a bit winded but I don’t want to appear weak so I keep plugging along. The man in front of me is moving at a pretty fast pace.

Half way up and I’m pulling myself along by the handrail. If I let go I’ll tumble all the way to the bottom. I smile (grimace) back at my family, because we’re having fun. Right? RIGHT?!

Three fourths of the way up. Is this damn lighthouse ever going to end? Whose dumb idea was it to climb a lighthouse anyway?! The stupid SOB in front of me is skipping! Geriatric Freak! I’m sucking on my inhaler and I honestly believe I’m going to die, but I can’t stop. My heart is pounding at an alarming rate, and my lungs have already collapsed.

The 70 year old cyborg in front of me is jogging. I think he must have taken Viagra or something. I’m going to die. Wheeze… My vision is going black. There’s no air! I can’t breath. These stairs will NEVER end. Wheeze…

Finally. We reach the top and there’s a tiny door that opens onto the lookout. I’m close to death but relieved to be finished with the stairs. I squeeze through the door and hope there’s enough oxygen this high up so that a couple of my brain cells will continue to live. At least there’ll be something left to hook up to a ventilator.

I look back for my family thinking they’ll want to enjoy the beautiful freaking view and guess what? My husband won’t come out on the deck. Suddenly, my 6’1” hero is afraid of heights.

Seriously!!!????!!! I climb the Mt. Everest of Lighthouses and he won’t come out on the deck! So I have to admire the view with the old geezer. Stupid robot.

Wheeze…

How does this tie into writing? And what’s the moral of the story. I don’t know. Maybe it’s that we shouldn’t compare ourselves to others. For all I know that old guy climbed those stairs everyday.

As writers and people we have to remember that each person has their own journey, and it’s not going to be down the same roads as someone else. Maybe it runs along side someone’s road for a while but there will be different obstacles for each of us.

Or maybe the moral is: Take Viagra and climb to the top!

just do it

no, i'm not back in 82, quoting the nike slogan. i'm here in 09 saying that if you want to blog, just do it. after all, blogging is writing, and we're writers, so what else is there to say?

the past month i've been evaluating the stuff i've written over the past few years. not only do i think i'm writing in a highly competitive subgenre, i started questioning if this was the direction i really wanted my personal writing career to go. my professional writing career enables me to do lots of different kinds of writing: script writing (i say script because these are for short videos and flash presentations), feature writing (magazine articles), web writing (as in web sites), business writing (as in memos, letters, press releases), etc. so, why can't i do lots of different personal writing? well, i believe i can do anything i want but since there are only 24 hours in a day, that's one reason why i can't. another reason is, at least it seems in romance, that you have to be married to one subgenre, or else develop another pen name and be two people. i barely have time to be one person, so being two, three, our four to cover all the writing i'd like to do may be more than i can tackle given other responsibilities and desires.

it also struck me that the majority of what i read is not what i write. i believe that is because of two reasons:

1. i have limited favorite authors in my subgenre, thus i only have a few books of theirs to read per year.
2. i am interested in lots of different stuff - i majored in english - that's what we did - we read a bunch of different stuff.

i'm not at some crossroad trying to figure out what i want to do. oh, gee, is this really for me? of course it is. that is a stupid question i will never ask myself - no matter how many rejections i get, no matter how many "life" obstacles come my way. regardless of my recent evaluation, i will do something. i've been writing since i was 15. i knew at 15 i would be a writer. that's why i studied it in school. that's what i do at work from 8-5, 40 hours a week, sometimes personal writing during my lunch hour, and usually part of my night after work. that's why i belong to a writing organization and am in the best critique group ever. i am never not writing even when i am not at my laptop or there is no pen or paper in sight. i can write anywhere, anytime. it's a choice, something i do - not something i see as something i'd like to do.

a writer either wants it or doesn't. you are either going to do it or just talk about doing it but never get around to doing it. if you are the latter, you aren't a writer. you have to write to be a writer. sorry, that's just how it is. remember the blog where is asked if a person could call themselves a runner if they never ran? the answer is no. you have to practice what you dream. dreams usually never fall into a person's lap. they have to work for it. besides, it wouldn't be any fun if you didn't earn it or learn from it.

so, where i'm at is here. i acknowledge that i am interested in lots of different subjects and lots of different types of writing ... and that is the beauty of it - people change. i've changed. back in the day i wrote a screenplay. maybe i'll write another one. i know how, so why not? for me, it's a matter of time and balancing priorities. my priorities have COMPLETELY changed, but that doesn't mean my love of writing has changed too. i will always write. but what i write, that is what i actually don't want to plan. maybe that's the pantster in me - i like letting writing take me somewhere. i don't want to plan it out. that's also why i avoid "methods" like storyboarding - that takes the fun out of it and it makes the whole writing process unnatural, at least to me. i don't need to do a character outline. if i don't know my characters inside and out, why would i even attempt to write a story? while i am this way, i accept that everyone is different. although i admit that i accept that everyone writes differently, i don't really understand it. i only "get" my way.

so again. i'll continue to write what feels right. and i think that is OK. whether i'm writing contemporary or women's fiction, my voice doesn't change. i'm still me.

if i had to come up with one issue, it would be that what i write doesn't seem to fit into some cookie cutter place. so, finding a home may be a little difficult, but you know what, i'm not worried about that. if it's meant to be, it will be.

so, i say if you want to be a writer, you better write. don't just think about writing, don't make excuses, don't plan it out because i am here to testify, as a former queen of planning, that plans don't always work out, at least not when we want them to. i do think, however, that if writing is something you truly want, as in deep down to the innermost depth of your heart - you will get what you want. but don't wait for it to just fall in your lap. you gotta write.

just do it. don't talk about it. do it. do. it.

Determination

This blog would be better with pictures, but I can't figure out my new camera and how to get the pix from the camera to the computer so you'll just have to deal with your imaginations. We're writers. We should have good imaginations. :)

I have 2 dogs (insert pix of cute doggie faces, one brown dog, one black dog). We'll call them Jaws and Hell Hound. They are around 75-80 pounds. Kinda large. Jaws had to have surgery this week. Found out about it on my birthday (happy birthday to me, more money to hand over to the vet). Now, we can't leave Jaws by herself as she has separation anxiety (hence the name Jaws. Perhaps what she did to our old house will show up in another blog. If you've ever been to the old place you might have noticed her handiwork, or should I say mouthwork???). Therefore, if HH has to go to the vet for a day treatment, then The Hubster has to work from home to comfort poor Jaws.

Hell Hound has never given us this problem. Of course we've never left him by himself anyplace but at the vet. Which he didn't like. Which should have clued us in, but name me a dog that does like the vet.

HH gets locked in the bedroom on the day Jaws spends at the vet. He is quiet when we leave, no barking, clawing or other noisy doggie behaviors. I'm happy.

But not for long.

The surgery goes well, we pick up a rather confused and very thirsty Jaws and run home. We are greeted by HH. Hmm. HH is supposed to be in the bedroom.

(insert pix of shredded bedroom door)

Yep. Hell Hound used his claws to dig the carpet back from the door. When all he encountered was cement foundation, did he stop? Nope. Determination.

After leaving little runny piles of potent odor causing substances scattered throughout the bedroom carpet, he attacked the door. Despite being larger, wooden and firmly fastened in its frame, the door stood no chance. Must've taken him all day to use his claws to detach the lower half of the hollow core door. Once this was accomplished, he was able to burst through the rest of the door.

So the top half of the door was still shut, but the bottom half was lying open. In case you're concerned about HH, he was fine, not a scratch. No animals were harmed in the making of this story. Amazing amount of determination in that dog.

As writers we have to be like Hell Hound. We have to be determined. We have to want to break down the proverbial doors of the publishing world and get our manuscripts out there. We have to know that there is something on the other side of the door we want and we will do anything to get to it. Or almost anything. It's not always easy. It might take all day, or all year or several years, but if we work long enough and hard enough, it will happen.

So don't give up. Borrow Hell Hound's determination and get the job done.

The writing job that is. I'm not advocating breaking any real doors. Your hubster won't like having to hang a replacement. :)

Day Job Versus Dream Career...

For many of us new writers, writing full time is a luxury we don't have. So what happens when our day job or family obligations rob us of the few precious hours we have to write? Or even worse...once we find the time to write, job or family stress invades our thoughts, preventing the creative juices from flowing freely.

In times like these, I take inspiration from anywhere I can get it. One source I have used more times than I can remember is a column written by science fiction author Robert J. Sawyer at www.sfwriter.com

He writes a terrific article on the Six Rules of Getting Published, and how out of 100 people, only a few follow all of the rules. Knowing that I am already following five rules and working on the sixth, keeps me plugging along in the face of everyday adversity.

If you're having trouble staying motivated, go to the above website, scroll down to the bottom and select How to Write then Heinlein's Rules.

So how many of the rules are you following?

Karilyn and the flat tire

Growing up my dad owned an auto salvage with his dad and brother. I used to spend summer days out there learning all sorts of things. Mainly my twin cousin and I would take the Green Machine - a Pinto minus the hatchback, the hood and the doors - and drive it up and down the rows in between wrecked cars. Our fathers, who were supposed to be watching our 12-year-old selves, thought this would be a safe activity, considering we couldn't really damage the GM and the rest of the cars were already wrecked. The GM didn't go very fast and supposedly taught us how to drive (if you ever saw Cousin drive, you'd think twice about this assessment).

Little did they know what we did with it.

At the time, Dukes of Hazzard was a really big show. Not the cheesy movie either, but the real Mccoy, with Bo and Luke Duke. Hoo-wee. Gotta go get my fan. Okay, I'm back. Anyhoo, since the Dukes could leap into a traveling car, Cousin and I figured we could too. So one of us would hop behind the wheel of the GM, gun the puny engine until it whined in protest and the other one would run as fast as her legs could carry her and leap, mostly gracefully, into the car. The driver would then tell the other how fast she could run.

Lots of good old-fashioned fun.

Despite all the fun, Dad did insist I learn something. God forbid that his girl go through life without knowing something about cars. So he'd spend hours showing me how engines work, what a drive shaft was, how to make car repairs. And yes, until I got my little Saturn I used to do a good number of car repairs, all under the watchful eye of Dad.

So the other night my friend and I were out and about and hopped in my shiny red Saturn to mosey home when the steering went out. I backed out of my spot, heard this clicking noise and the car started to veer to the right.

Great. More money that needed to be spent b/c it looked and felt like the steering was completely out.

Friend and I drove home and the whole time the car's veering to the right. When I got home, I looked under the car, convinced something had to be hanging off of it. Nothing was. So, I thought, gee, maybe it will spontaneously fix itself overnight b/c I really can't afford a steering problem. It could happen.

When I hopped in the car the next morning and backed it out, more noise sounded, so loud I think it woke up the few neighbors that weren't awake. I pulled it around to the front of the house and figured I should look under the hood.

Embarrassingly enough I couldn't get the hood opened. So now my hands are covered in dirt but luckily I'm at home where there's soap and water, no problem. But it's obvious the car won't make it to the dealership b/c said dealership is like 15 miles from my house. So I think, hey Firestone is down the street, only 3 miles, no problem. I hop back in the car, that is now making so much noise that the radio can't drown it out, and start driving. Noise, unbelievingly, gets worse. I panic. Keep driving car though. Stop at traffic light. Kind Lady rolls down her window and starts hollering, hey lady, you have a flat.

**mentally hits self in head several times** Tells Kind Lady thanks and pulls off road into Sonic parking lot.

Now I can put into use all those skills Dad taught me more years ago than I'm going to mention. I hop out of the car, pop the trunk (yes, unlike the hood I can get the trunk open), pull out the spare and jack and drag it up to the tire. The tire is smoking, nice white smoke and smells like it's been set on fire. The wrench is on the jack and I cut my finger open getting it un-attached.

The wrench won't open so each time I twirl it around, little metal pieces of my hubcaps come off. Blood is dripping all over and grease is coating my hands. Now, you might not realize this, but I'm a wee bit OCD and all I see is dirt. Like the character in Macbeth - out, out damn spot. I start to hyperventillate b/c there is dirt on my hand and in my cut and I'm in my nice Scooby scrubs and they're going to get dirty and there is no place to wash my hands - did I mention all the dirt?? - and it's way before 8 so no place is open and who do I call around here and why the hell won't the lug nuts unscrew - what is wrong with them?? - and there is DIRT and I can't touch anything b/c of the dirt and I'm going to have to call my hubby b/c of the dirt b/c I can't change the tire with all the dirt.

So much for Dad's lessons.

The hubster leaves work at my panic dirt-filled call and comes and changes the tire b/c dirt doesn't bother him and the lug nuts come out for him.

I feel like a dumb blonde. I know how to change a flat. I used to change tires with Dad all the time. And there I sat completely immobilized by dirt.

But I did get the tire fixed by Discount Tires who had me on my way in 15 minutes. Great place if you've never used them. They even let me clean my hands using their special soap. It took 5 washings but the hands are clean now. Skinless, but clean. :)

Ever had a flat?

life sans adversity is like a book sans conflict

OMG, that alpaca commercial is on AGAIN! what is the deal? does anyone else ever see that on TV?

that's not what this blog is about, but i find that commercial completely jarring.

real blog starts now.

for the past, i don't know, YEAR, i've been wondering how much adversity i must overcome before i "pass" the test. now maybe it really isn't a test. maybe it's karma, maybe it's bad luck, maybe i'm too snarky and this is punishment, maybe it's just something i as a human am not privy to because this "test" is preparing me for something later in my life, or even my afterlife, but for heaven's sake! there are days when i'm like, dang it, can i really pick myself up - AGAIN? and AGAIN? and AGAIN?

the answer is always yes, but i still ask myself that same question - every time. now i know i'm not the only one facing adversity. i know there are people out there going through more difficult things than me. but i'm a writer; i live in my own world a lot of the time.

despite the adversity, here i am - still. still getting drop-kicked in the e-mail and/or mailbox, but i keep trying. i love to write. i want to have a baby. i want the career, the man, EVERYTHING - just like my heroines. so, i'll just keep trying. even if some days it seems so damn hard. even when it seems so much easier for other people. even if other writers get published with stories that include petticoats, fanny packs, and leather deck shoes.

it's obvious i'm supposed to learn something specific while on this journey. well, i know the adversity is worth it. i've learned i'm tough enough to handle it. so what else am i overlooking?

You, Me and Aunt Louis

My life revolves around writing, family and the military. If I'm not writing or hanging out with the family, I'm handing out cold sandwiches and taking notes for my sporkncork blog down at the USO. I love my Sunday job mostly because it provides me with so much material but also because it's a nice thing to do.

I'm full of stories and embarrassing moments from my 4-6 hour Sunday shifts. This past weekend I had the chance to try on one of those ginormous backpacks those guys have to lug around. I fell on my ass. It's a pretty funny story and even my Mom was in tears when I shared my latest fiasco with her.

I'm telling my aunt - who may no longer be my aunt because she's divorced and no longer married to the family, but I still love her - about me and Air Force guy and I tell her that I told him (he said, that she said, that I said...) that if he ever picked up a novel and recognized himself it was purely coincidental and there was no need to call a lawyer.

Aunt: I didn't know you write!
Me: You proofed my baseball story.
Aunt: I thought that was school project.

Side note: I'm not in school, when I was I was never asked to turn in a full manuscript for a grade and my aunt is border line c-r-a-z-y.

She says she has a friend who has a sister that is a published author. Oh, no. Here we go again.

Aunt: Do you want me to have her call you?
Me: No, really it's fine.
Aunt: She's a romance author. She could help get you in the door.
Me: HUGE GIANT SIGH

I tell my aunt that would be great because I don't have the heart to explain that this author, that we all know because she is also a member of DARA, is probably really busy staying in the business of being published and probably doesn't want to talk to someone she has met in passing so she can help get her in the door.

What is wrong with people? Bless their hearts, I know they are only trying to help. If only it was that easy.

My infomercial monologue will read like this:

You too can be a successful best selling author! It's so easy and my program will tell you exactly what you need to do to get in the door. I'll share with you all the inside secrets that agents and publishing houses DON'T want you to know. blah. blah. blah.

The secret? "Just meet a published author and BAM! You're published. Foot in the door. Over night success. How FREAKING easy is that?" In really small letters I'll add: 'Sorry no refunds' and 'the results exhibited in the infomercial were not typical'.

What. Ever.

Seriously.

Groupies or stalkers?

As some of you may know, I got to meet my Favorite Author last weekend! Way cool. In the interest of not naming names, I'm going to create a blog with no first names. Or try to.

Anyway, FA is a wonderful person for those of you who know who I'm talking about. She's really friendly and bubbly and she rebuilt a 1964 and 1/2 mustang from scratch. In between being a best selling author and globe hopping for all these events that come with being a best selling author. You've gotta admire a woman who can rebuild a car.

My money bought me a visit to the author's reception Saturday night and then out to dinner with FA. Sunday included getting to sit at her table at the literary event. Nine of us won this privilege.

Needless to say I was a bit excited. I got all fancied up and drove to the hotel where we're to meet. I'm one of the last to arrive so everyone has been sitting around chatting and getting to know each other. When I arrive, all names are thrown at me, as if I can remember names, and I smile and try to look like I really want to be best friends with them all. Two women describe themselves as FA's stalkers. OOOkkkkaaaayyyy. I look around for the cops, but none are to be found.

Then FA shows up and we all pile into a van. Think of opening a sardine can, to be rather cliche. I scrunched against the wall, but I'm two seats down from FA so who really cares. The lady sitting next to me is one of the self-admitted stalkers and the entire time we're squashed together she is talking to FA about FA's life. FA is chatting away with her, obviously not as freaked out about this as I am. The entire time this lady, let's call her stalker lady, SL, sits next to FA and has to be the dominent in the conversation. So if you ask FA a question you can tell she's not a happy camper b/c now FA is paying some attention to someone other than SL. SL doesn't like that.

However, get SL away from FA and she's really nice. Just one of those people that has to have all the attention on her and she draws that attention by making herself sound more important by knowing all this info about FA. Interesting pychology study.

The other "stalker" was more as I'd describe myself. Fairly normal, but a huge fan. The difference between us is that she goes to all these FA author events. But the other lady was freaking ME out and I'm not even a famous author.

Oh well. FA is wonderful, love her books and she's just as nice in person as she seems in her books.

But she had apparently had enough too b/c during the tea she stuck SL across the table from her.

So, are people like me who go to these things groupies or stalkers? What's your opinion?

things that make you go hmm ...

and i'm not talking about the 90s song from c+c music factory.

some of these "sights" i saw on our cruise. some i think could really facilitate some dialogue among us. so, i'll be interested to hear your thoughts on ...

leather doesn't make it any better.

flapping running shorts is like a low-cut shirt on a woman - hopefully nothing slips out.
when mosquitoes are bad, you don't care about fashion. maybe the above 2 guys were trying to scare mosquitoes with reverse psychology?
meet my next hero. al paca.
from my hometown newspaper. i don't think i could even dream up a scene like this.

please vote for your favorite.

i got 99 problems and PEACH is no. 1

tip(s) of the day: if you’re going somewhere close to the equator, take bug spray. and always, always take bug spray when you go into the jungle. any jungle. even if you are wearing long sleeves. even if you tight-roll your jeans like 1991. even if a guy named hey-seuss offers you his bug spray. take. your. own.

well, no jerky mishaps like angie, but i did gather plenty of bloggable stuff during our cruise. there were lots of “characters” on the ship. in fact, biscuit started a simple naming system in which to identify these characters—all male characters, by the way. i will save this jewel for another blog.

since this was a “love” cruise, i lovingly decided to leave my laptop at home. this decision made my eye twitch for most of the cruise and leaving it at home in the barb room was almost as sad as leaving my two young sons (my dogs) at their lavish canine resort. nonetheless, i was excited to read a new book. i really enjoyed the first book in this series; you guys probably remember me questioning the white jumpsuit thing, but aside from that, i loved the story. well, the second book … not so much. the author obviously did a lot of research and i learned lots of new things, which I always appreciate—but, because there was so much “research,” i felt like the story suffered. the dialogue was just not up to the caliber as the research and because of that, the whole story seemed off-balance.

then there was the issue i always have issues with: the characters’ fashion.

disclaimer(s): blogger is not a fashionista. blogger is simply opinionated and confused based on the author’s fashion choices for her characters based on the current date and time in which we live—2008.

… O. M. G. biscuit and i would be sitting there in our cabin—yes, on a love cruise and not on the lido deck playing shuffleboard, but him watching the UK vs. Alabama game on TV and me reading this book—and i’d read biscuit the outfit causing confusion and he’d shrug his shoulders and say, “i don’t even know what that is.”

let me back the bus up for a minute. while on this cruise, i saw things i’d never seen before. “characters” that made me stop, analyze, and reflect. characters that wore the things i have serious issues with. let me break this down even further—girls, i saw leather deck shoes in person!!!! in real-time. even when i poked biscuit on the arm and said, “oh my gah, look, LDS,” and he said, “huh?” and i clarified, “leather deck shoes,” and he was like, again, “i don’t even know what that is,” and i was like, “LOAFERS. LEATHER LOAFERS. ON THE LIDO DECK! WHAT IS WRONG WITH FREAKING FLIP FLOPS!”

then he got it.

but back to the book. this author didn’t just dress the heroine in peach, she dressed ALL the female characters in peach. i kid you not. every outfit was peach—for every freaking female character. peach, peach, peach. even their nail polish was peach. first of all, i have nothing against peach. as in the fruit. but the color, as in the peach crayon found in a 64-count box of crayolas, nope. not working in 2008. when i go to stonebriar, i do not see lots of peach-colored attire on the racks. this story was set in a certain large U.S. city that is not located near a beach where one might potentially spot peach-colored attire. and the female characters were all in their early 30s. hello? at least there were no peach-colored sarongs or thongs.

now, it would have been different if the heroine or another female character wore a cute, peach-colored babydoll shirt or maybe a peach-colored sundress or even a peach-colored sweater from ann taylor. but no. we're talking blouses. what is a blouse anyway? that word sounds suspicious to me. i call them shirts. short-sleeve shirts, long-sleeve shirts, sweatshirts. some are dressy shirts, some are T-shirts. some are tank tops. blouse is like using the word caftan instead of a lounge chair or chignon instead of bun.

there was one exception to peach … when the hero was wearing navy slacks (when i say “slacks” out loud it sounds as if i have a crouton lodged in my larynx) AND a navy SILK T-shirt. yes, a SILK T-shirt. when i think of “T-shirts” i think of 100 percent cotton with screen-printed lettering on it, like one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

anyway, it’s not that big of a deal, but the fashion distracted me throughout the story. maybe the author wasn’t even aware that she was using the same color over and over and over and over, but I noticed. i know, i know, i pick up on anal things, but that’s what i do. writers are supposed to be detail-oriented.

let’s look at some acceptable ways to work peach into a story:

she was a lightweight and ordered a dekuyper peach tree schnapps, but when a hot guy walked in, she needed something stronger. like tequila. “hey, bartender, make it a peach margarita instead.”

after working out, jill stopped at the gym’s café and ordered a peach smoothie.

jeremy was clueless. what the hell had he been thinking, offering to cook dinner for natalie. that was easy. he hadn’t been thinking jack—he’d been staring at her body. damn, she had a body. the woman clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. fruit. yeah, he bet she liked healthy stuff, like fruit. strawberries, grapes, peaches. and probably something tropical like papaya or kiwi. maybe he could pull this off after all. jeremy slipped on his nike flip flops, grabbed his keys, and headed to whole foods.

melanie squeezed her eyes after her mother stepped out of her 1991 coupe deville. what in the hell is my mother wearing? a peach moo-moo with kitty cats? i gave her a generous gift card to talbots. why, mother? why? you're meeting my boyfriend for the first time today and now he'll assume this is what i will look like in 30 years! ugh.

my great-grandmother loved that movie, a league of their own. back in the day, she was a rockford peach.

kate turned up the volume on her ipod when prince came on. peach. awesome song. the next song that came on had her rocking out to the steve miller band … you’re the cutest thing that i ever did see, i really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree …

i rest my case.

next time you go to victoria’s secret, i challenge you to ask an associate to show you a bra or teddy (not a bear) in peach. if she whips one out of the drawer in zero to three seconds, i stand corrected on peach being a universally accepted, fashionable color in 2008. however, if the associate cocks her head and looks confused, FACE!

Tomfoolery

Isn't that word AWESOME! Props to Christie for using it and props to me for stealing it for my own blog post.

I tried to upload an adorable image of an english sheepdog with so much POOF you couldn't see his eyes. Bless his heart. Now I know how Trinity feels about the uploading picture thing.

Okay, so to continue Christie's line of thought from last week, I'm going to talk about sorta the same thing. How amazingly easy it is to pen a novel and get it published and be in LOVE with the entire process!! I mean who doesn't love waiting for months upon months for that 'We really liked your work but..." letter that shatters all your hopes. Are you perched on the edge of your chairs? Don't be...that was completely tongue in cheek and I don't want you to be disappointed in the long run.

Now, let me apologize upfront to my friend who probably won't appreciate being the subject of this discussion but she is a perfect illustration of what Christie was so delicately pointing out.

There are very few people who know I live the secret life of a tortured writer. In a nutshell, I agree with Trinity - it's just easier than having to explain (or in our case - DEFEND) what we are trying to accomplish. Smirks, snide remarks, and basic school yard bullying is just not worth it. But when I'm published, I'll be wearing that badge for all the world to see and God help whoever decides to open their mouth because I have 32 years of pent up anger just waiting to be released.

My friend went to see a multi-published best selling author, one whose books are ALWAYS made into major motion pictures, speak when he was here in town recently. The next day she explained to me how disappointed she was in him. What? Come again. MULTI-PUBLISHED. BEST SELLING. MOVIES. I see nothing to be disappointed in.

She explains that she got the feeling that he just wrote books to have them made into movies. I tried to explain the writing is a business. Oh, sure it can be a hobby, but the truly dedicated souls that slave night after night while their family is off in fairy dream land know, they know, it's one of the most competitive businesses probably in the world.

For most, we write because it is what we are made to do. I wrote my first short story in the third grade. We were asked to write a paper on what would happen if the sun suddenly decided not to shine. I turned in a five page story. FIVE PAGES and I was EIGHT. Why do I remember this? Because later I would realize that was when I knew what I was supposed to do and that was write.

I am sure there are authors who don't give a rats ass about what they are doing, they were somehow blessed with a natural ability to plot and form sentences that make marketable manuscripts, but I bet they are fewer than we think in the fiction world. This particular author might well be one of those few but who cares? When it all comes down, it is still a business.

You write because you can. You publish because you either have a great agent that pushes your work endlessly or when a tired editor happens to read your manuscript while drunk and you sign the contract before she sobers up. I'm kidding, but I think you understand our chances are slim, slim, slim. Luck has to play a huge part.

After you publish, you hope for a movie deal (insert snicker) but you don't wait for that because you are already pounding away on another manuscript that you hope keeps the publisher interested enough to give you some heavy marketing or you end up at a bookstore with only your fellow spanksters alternating autograph requests with sympathy shining in their eyes.

And guess what? You write that next book with the same damn dogged determination that I had when I penned that short story when I was eight. Not because you can, but because you have to. At least for me. It's like OCD. Gotta write. Gotta write. Gotta write.

Sometimes I'm so sick of it I quit. Stop writing for months but I always go back. Because I have a story to tell. Because Muse Bob won't stop nagging about how much time we are wasting reading and blogging and youtubing when we could be producing. And then you go to meetings and hear things like "Five thousand dollar" advance for first time authors and I want to throw my laptop off the roof. Do they know how much time I spent on this thing? Anyone done the math? Is that kind of pay even legal?

It shouldn't be about the money, but how can it not be in the long run? It's a business. I don't live in a village where other people pay my mortgage because I need to finish my manuscript. I'll take that advance but you can damn well bet I'm gonna make sure my next work is worth a hell of a lot more. And more after that.

We can't work two jobs forever, and that's exactly what writing is for me. A second job. I love it (and hate it) but I spend hours a day plotting and planning and penning words that float around in my head all day long.

It all boils down to this for me: don't make a judgement call against a successful author because he has the talent to turn books into movies because then you are judging me.

I have six, seven if you count the trash I wrote in high school, manuscripts. Some complete. Others still in progress. I have a book of poetry I began in middle school. I have a notebook that I literally use rubber bands to hold together full of ideas I may never use.

Yet...

I have never won a contest. I have never been offered a publishing deal. I don't have agents beating down my door throwing Range Rovers in my face begging to represent me.

Until you've walked the world seven times over in my shoes don't tell me what writing should be about. Sometimes I hate the words I've written. Hate the characters I've created but if someone wants to buy something I hate, then heck yeah, I'm gonna be all over it. In less than a heartbeat.

everyone can run

i was glued to the olympics this year. my heart went out to lolo jones when she clipped that last hurdle. i totally understood how she felt in that moment when she fought to get across the finish line. she'd spent four years of her life preparing for a race that lasted 10 seconds. four years. ten seconds. her dream was crushed - just like that.

as i watched track event after track event, the runners made it look so easy because come on, how hard is it to run? most of us can - it's really just a faster version of walking, so how hard is it really to do the 100 meter dash - right? could i run the 100 meter dash? sure. could i run it in less than 30 seconds and without injuring a hamstring? doubtful. the point is yes, i could run it, but it is not my expertise and no coach would ever recruit me to be on the olympic team.

the same concept can be applied to writing romance. we all hear the flack about the genre we love and how "anyone" can whip out one of those little harlequins. ok, those of us on the inside of the romance genre know that is just tomfoolery coming out of their mouths because harlequin is a complicated beast. and if harlequin is complicated then getting published by a NY publisher is a combination of astrophysics and advanced calculus.

publishing a book is NOT easy. anyone can write a book, but not everyone can publish one.

this is what has been on my mind lately. it disturbs me that people think once you have written a book it should be a piece of cake to get it published. we all know that is not true. and, IMO, trying to get published in romance is more difficult than any other type of genre or type of writing. it's tremendously subjective and we are competing with thousands and thousands of writers for one of a few limited spots with a publisher. people who don't read romance - people who have some "false image" of romance don't get what we're trying to accomplish here. people say to me, "well, can't you just try to publish an article in some magazine," or "have you ever heard of something called self-publishing?"

yes, i believe i could publish an article in a magazine - if i switched gears to feature writing. publishing in a magazine requires a different type of writing style, a different type of marketing approach, and i am not interested in doing that at this time. and self-publishing - one of my favorite women's fiction authors started out that way, but that doesn't mean it's right for me. in fact, in our genre we are basically told self-publishing is career suicide. and that's why we're trying to publish a book - because we want a career in romance writing. writing is like any other profession - there are different types of writing. but romance writing is not like any other type of writing. i know most people just don't understand this because they aren't as intimately involved with it as we are, but it bugs me when they just think it should be as easy as pushing that big red EASY button at staples.

maybe romance writers do live in their own universe, but i'm happy where i live and i'll continue to pursue publishing in romance. when people start trying to give me advice about how to publish "faster," i'll listen, but in my head i'll know the truth. that it's not easy to publish, just like it is not easy to run the 100 meter dash. especially when there are lots of hurdles a long the way.

if you can feel me on this, holler.

Sex, Sealing the Deal and Closure

In this day and age modern women don’t have sex and immediately fall in love, right? Okay, I will allow that there are some boiling-rabbits-on-the-stove women still around that associate sex with L-O-V-E, but come on. The generation of today’s youth could give a hippie commune a run for its money.

‘Debbie Does Dallas’ was once a just porn flick I heard about in high school. Turns out Debbie, Ryder, Kendra – and any other name you can think of – not only does Dallas, but then moves on to Ft. Worth and when them pickens are lean…let’s not go there.

Sex in the City says it all. Women are strong. Financially stable. Self confident. And the word SLUT just doesn’t have the same connotation that it once carried. Unless you live in a small town, and like Miranda Lambert says: “everybody dies famous in a small town,” so you have to earn a rep somehow.

Here’s the deal. I’m reading through a work in progress and I’m struggling to write anything. Just staring at the blinking cursor and wishing like hell my enter key was missing and my shift button was stuck – because it would give me something to do. I’m reading a love scene. Wait, is that old fashioned? EEEK!!! I mean SEX, sex scene. And it occurs to me that perhaps this is why I pull my hair out, screech and moan when it comes to writing the end of a manuscript.

I know I’m not making sense but just hang in there a second. In the world of romance novels, once a woman has sex with a man she is either destined to be one of three things:

1. The horribly killed off ex-wife
2. The incredibly bitter ex-wife, girlfriend, etc…etc…
3. The heroine

It occurs to me as I’m moving my eyes over the text I have written that perhaps that’s why I am so incredibly horrid when it comes to closing a book. Because in my tiny little brain when the sex is happening – that’s it.

They’re together.

Sure, you can throw in some twists and turns, stage the HUGE BLACK moment when they are ripped apart – but guess what? They get back together. Because that’s how it works in novels of the romantic nature.

Sex. Fight. Confess Love. The End.

And sometimes you get an epilogue that shows the reader how splendidly happy they are five years down the road with devishly handsome twin boys and a house with a white picket fence.

I feel so cynical. Like I’m taking something away from the hours we are slaves to the keyboard clicking out those intricate plots and character flaws. But I’m not trying to be. Just sharing a conflict that is becoming increasingly difficult for me to overcome.

I’ve been aware of it for a while, talked about it at some of our meetings but I don’t know what to do about it. I discovered tonight that it takes away from the emotional attachment I feel toward my characters. Oh great, they went and did it. FUBAR’d the whole shebang with the having of the sex.

Perhaps I’ll just go back to the days of “Insert Sex Scene Here” and move along knowing that they had sealed the deal but convincing myself that since I hadn’t really written the scene – it hadn’t actually happened.

Right. And Debbie decided she liked Dallas and didn’t have the energy to take on Fort Sill.

Sorry. I can’t keep the military references out…it’s an annoying new habit. Along with the thumbs up thing.

Where's Bigfoot when you need him?

Remember the movie ‘Predator’ with Arnold S.? He was chased through the jungle and swamps by an alien hell-bent on annihilating him or becoming his new best friend. One or the other.

That was me last week. Except I wasn’t being pursued by a 7 foot tall invisible alien. I was being hunted by a herd of 4 foot tall 11 year olds. Hunted might be too strong a word, except in my nightmares where they're chasing me through the woods looking for guidance and GoldFish Crackers.

We were at CAMP. One of the most hated words in the English language. Hated by me at least. I am not a camper. I’ve wanted to be a lot of things. Vanna White mostly. But I’ve never, ever wanted to be a camper.

Anyway, that’s what we did. The whole class at the kiddo’s school packed up and headed off to ‘Happy Cheerful Fun Camp’. We packed and packed and packed. Because even though we had to pay A LOT for camp they didn’t actually provide anything in the cabins. No towels, no sheets, no pillows, no paper towels, no refrigerator, no life size blow up George Clooney doll. If you wanted any of that stuff then you had to pack it yourself. When hubby saw the loaded down SUV he said, “How long will you be gone? A month? Did you leave any paper towels or toilet paper for me?” I don’t think that was actual panic in his voice, I’m sure it was concern for mine and the kiddo’s wellbeing.

After driving several hours to ‘Happy Freakin' Fun Camp’ we arrive and get to unload all the crap wedged into the SUV. The other moms and I drag the gallons of sunscreen and bug spray down the hill to our circa 1940’s cabin. Everything must be brought in and put somewhere. 20 sleeping bags, 25 duffle bags, several tote bags etc. Apparently none of us travel light.

When we first saw our tiny cabin the teacher said, “Look, you have a view of the lake.”
I don’t know what she was talking about because the windows facing the lake were 6 feet above our heads. We’d have to pole vault onto the ceiling fans to see anything out of those bug-caked windows. And the other windows were blocked by 16 bunk beds. View? Don’t think so.

The chaperones had to climb a LADDER to get to our sleeping loft. All of our stuff had to be hauled up and down the ‘Ladder of Death.’ The bathroom was on the first level so if you needed to go in the middle of the night, the process involved putting on flip-flops (the floor was filthy) and climbing down an 8 foot ladder in the dark while holding a flashlight. There were 8 rungs down to the floor. I tried to count them off: One…two…three…slip,thud, thud, thud, slam. Well, I made it down.

The schedule given to us by the camp counselors showed that 10:00 pm was ‘Lights Out.’ This sounded good to me. And if they hadn’t kept us out until 9:45 making the kids do some intricate clapping exercises then we might have made it to bed by 10:00.
Unless our kids grow up and join the circus or work with trained seals, I don’t know how that much clapping is going to help.

We had 20 people and 4 showers. Lights didn’t go ‘out’ until midnight, and that was after a lot of crying and whining ….some of the kids were upset too.

Some of the moms had really involved hair and beauty regimens that could NOT be skipped. At first I thought that was a waste of time but then I realized, if Bigfoot broke into the cabin, he’d take the primped and coiffed moms and leave the rest of us behind.

Although, by the third day we were all so exhausted from the freakishly happy clapping and overly cheerful counselors, that I would have thrown myself at Bigfoot’s mercy and begged him to drag me off into the woods, if I could just get some sleep. I guess he had the week off because there wasn’t one sighting of the big lazy lug.

We spent days and days (Well, 3 days, which felt like a month) applying buckets of sunscreen and enduring clouds of bug spray. FYI bug spray does not taste as good as you might think. There was a truck load of tears, lost contacts, hurt feelings, and several injuries.

On the last day, I was so tired I couldn’t even eat lunch so I just tried to get as much caffeine and sugar down to make the drive home. To sanctuary. And clean showers.

But something amazing happened as we drove out of the parking lot of “Happy @#$%^ Camp”. I had a renewal of energy. I felt positively giddy! I hadn’t been that happy since we made our great escape from Canada. I wanted to sing songs and share my euphoria, but since the other moms looked they were about to club me over the head I kept it to myself. Mostly.

P.S. The kids had a great time and everyone made it back safely.